Lot 073 : I Got A Voicemail // My Boyfriend Disappeared // Autopilot

Today's episode is sponsored by I Know What You Did Last Summer.

Get It Now on Digital.

When five friends inadvertently cause a deadly car accident, they cover up their involvement and make a pact to keep it a secret rather than face the consequences.

A year later, their past comes back to haunt them, and they're forced to confront a horrifying truth.

Someone knows what they did last summer and is hell-bent on revenge.

As one by one, the friends are stalked by a killer.

They discover this happened before, so they turn to two survivors of the legendary Southport massacre of 1997 for help.

Starring Madeline Klein, Chase Sue Wonders, Jonah Hauer King, with Freddie Prince Jr., and Jennifer Love Hewitt.

I know what you did last summer is a perfect summer slasher, says Jordan Cruciolo of NPR.

Your summer is not over yet.

Don't miss a killer movie night at home.

Well, look what the cat dragged in.

I've got a small collection of objects just came in for you a few hours ago.

For the first, a framed photo of a lovely couple on what looks to be a beach vacation somewhere.

A happy memory, frozen in time.

But as we know,

just like time,

happiness can be rather fleeting, canted.

This one's called,

I got a voicemail from my wife.

She died 10 years ago.

Before we begin, I want to point out some of the customers whose names have been etched in brass on this beautiful plaque I had made above the front desk.

These are some of the members of the inner circle of the antiquarium.

We go by the Obsidian Covenant.

Recent initiates include Brantley Drapp,

Sasha Mueller-Brown,

Danielle O'Connor, Javante Robinson, Sujin Johnson,

Jared Cruz,

Stephen Real,

Terrence Stevens,

and

Daniel Mas.

We are ever appreciative of your devotion to the Order.

Go to theObsidiancovenant.com to receive the sacrament.

Now,

where were we?

Oh yes.

Welcome to the Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings

and Odd Goings On.

I got a voicemail from my wife.

She died 10 years ago.

When the first voicemail came, I was in the middle of eating dinner,

mindlessly flipping through the news on TV.

the screen of my phone lit up, and I barely noticed it.

Spam calls are part of my daily routine.

But this time, it wasn't a scam.

It was a voicemail from a number I hadn't seen in over a decade.

It was from...

her.

Hi.

It's me.

I know this is gonna sound strange, but I need you to listen carefully.

You...

you can't trust him.

I mean, the voice was unmistakable.

It was Lauren.

My wife.

The woman I buried 10 years ago.

I dropped my fork, the clatter making me jump.

For a second, I thought maybe it was a prank.

Some cruel scammer who'd found her voice on old videos I'd foolishly uploaded to social media using AI or something.

But then I listened again.

There was something about the way she spoke.

The cadence, the inflection, the breathiness at the end of her words.

It wasn't just Lauren's voice,

it was her.

She'd been dead for 10 years.

Lauren had been my everything.

When she died, I was a husk of myself,

Wandering through days I can barely recall.

A car accident took her from me.

Quick and brutal.

The driver was never found.

And now,

her voice.

It was impossible.

The voicemail was timestamped only a minute before I played it.

And when I tried to call the number back, it rang to nothingness.

No dial tone, no voicemail box.

Just an endless void.

I listened to the message again and again.

The words embedding themselves into my mind.

You can't trust him.

Who?

Trust who?

What was she warning me about?

The next day at work, I was distracted.

Every buzz of my phone made me jump.

Every voice in the office sounded like hers.

By lunchtime, I couldn't take it anymore.

I just drove home.

I needed to listen to it again.

Maybe find something I'd missed.

But the message was gone.

Not deleted, just gone.

As though it had never existed.

No call lock, no voicemail history.

My heart sank.

Maybe I was losing it.

Maybe grief had crept back in a decade late,

gnawing at my sanity.

That's when the second voicemail came.

I froze.

My heart thundered as I glanced around my living room.

It was daylight.

The sun streaming in through the windows.

Nothing seemed out of place.

But the sense of being watched.

I grabbed my keys and bolted.

I drove aimlessly for hours, Lauren's voice playing over and over in my head.

By the time I returned home, it was dark,

and the house felt

different.

The air was heavy, charged,

like the moments before a thunderstorm.

And then I noticed the picture frame on the mantle.

It was Lauren's favorite photo of us, taken on our honeymoon.

I'd smashed it years ago in a fit of grief.

The shards of glass long since swept away.

But now

it was back.

Whole.

Perfect.

I was shaking as I approached it.

My breath caught when I saw the note tucked behind the frame.

He's in the basement.

Adrenaline surged as I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and crept down the stairs.

The basement was cold and damp,

the single bulb casting long, eerie shadows.

At first,

I saw nothing.

Just old boxes and a faint smell of mildew.

But then,

I noticed the corner.

The shadows didn't line up.

I stepped closer.

My breath hitching.

The air seemed to hum.

And for a second,

I thought I heard

whispering.

When I reached the corner,

I found nothing but a mirror.

It hadn't been there before.

The reflection wasn't mine.

Lauren's face stared back at me, her eyes wide with terror.

Her lips moved silently,

forming words I couldn't hear.

My knees buckled as the mirror seemed to ripple.

The glass warping as though she was pressing against it from the other side.

Then

the whisper started.

I bolted, slamming the basement door behind me.

My mind was racing, my pulse deafening in my ears.

I couldn't make sense of it.

Lauren's warnings, the mirror, the voicemails, nothing fucking made sense.

None of it felt real.

That's when my phone buzzed.

Another voicemail.

It's too late.

He's already inside.

Till death do us part.

The bright side is, at least Lauren and her hubby can live forever in unholy matrimony.

Now, for your next trip into Purgatory, a black notebook that holds some rather dark secrets.

Time to curl up for a reading of

My Boyfriend Disappeared.

But the more I search for him, the more I'm losing myself.

My boyfriend disappeared, but the more I search for him, the more I'm losing myself.

It started with a voicemail.

Hey, it's me.

Call me back when you get this, okay?

I've been

thinking about what you said, and I just need to talk to you.

That was it.

That was the last time I heard from Noah.

I replayed the message so many times, I memorized every hesitation, every crack in his voice.

I tried calling him back, of course, but his phone went straight to voicemail.

I figured he needed space.

Noah always did this when life got overwhelming.

He'd retreat for a day or two, hole up in his apartment with his records and a bottle of whiskey.

But when a day stretched into a week, then two, I knew something was wrong.

I filed a missing person's report.

His friends hadn't heard from him.

His job said he stopped showing up after taking an extended leave of absence.

His apartment was empty.

The rent paid months in advance.

It was like he just evaporated, but I couldn't let it go.

I went through every scrap of his life, tearing apart his social media, scrolling through our old texts, even digging into the corners of his past he'd been reluctant to share.

There had to be something, a clue, a thread to pull.

And that's when I found the notebook.

It was buried under a pile of papers in a drawer of his desk.

The cover was plain black, the kind you'd find in any office supply store.

But when I opened it, I realized it was a journal, and not just any journal.

This was his life.

Dates, places, people.

Thoughts scrawled in his jagged handwriting.

But the farther I read, the stranger it got.

He wrote about shadows following him.

About waking up in places he didn't recognize.

About a voice he could hear whispering his name at night.

I think they're watching me, one entry said.

I see them in the corner of my eye, but when I turn, they're gone.

Another?

I don't know if I'm going insane or if something's really there,

but it's getting worse.

I can't trust anyone.

Not even her.

The date on that last one was a week before he disappeared.

I reread that last line.

Not even her.

Over and over until the words blurred.

Did he mean me?

I became obsessed.

Every waking hour was consumed by Noah's disappearance and the fragments he'd left behind.

I found myself walking the places he wrote about in his journal.

The coffee shop on 12th Street, the old bridge over the river, the abandoned lot behind the factory.

At first, it was like I was retracing his steps, but then things started to

shift.

It was subtle at first.

My reflection in the mirror lingered a second too long.

I'd hear footsteps when I was alone, soft and deliberate, like someone following me.

Once, I caught a glimpse of something in my peripheral vision.

A shadow, tall and thin.

But when I turned, there was nothing there.

The more I searched for Noah, the more I felt myself unraveling.

And then there were the dreams.

Every night I'd find myself in a darkened version of somewhere familiar.

My apartment, my office, the park where Noah and I used to meet.

The shadows were always there,

standing in the distance, their heads tilted as if watching me.

I'd wake up drenched in sweat, but the feeling of being watched wouldn't go away.

Last night, I found the final entry in the notebook.

It was written on the back cover.

The ink smudged and frantic, as if he'd written it in a hurry.

I understand now.

They don't want me.

They want her.

If you're reading this, you have to stop.

Don't look for me.

Don't let them see you.

My breath caught as I read it.

My first instinct was to throw the notebook across the room, but I couldn't let go of it.

I turned, feeling the weight of a thousand unseen eyes pressing against me.

And there it was.

Just outside the window.

A shadow.

Impossibly tall, staring back at me through the glass.

I don't know what they are or why they want me.

All I know is that Noah disappeared trying to keep them away from me.

And now that I've been searching for him, I've brought them closer.

They're always watching now.

I see them when I close my eyes.

Hear them whispering my name.

I thought I could find Noah.

I thought I could save him.

But the more I search for him, the more I realize

I'm the one who's disappearing.

Today's episode is sponsored by I Know What You Did Last Summer.

Get It Now on Digital.

When five friends inadvertently cause a deadly car accident, they cover up their involvement and make a pact to keep it a secret rather than face the consequences.

A year later, their past comes back to haunt them, and they're forced to confront a horrifying truth.

Someone knows what they did last summer, and is hell-bent on revenge.

As one by one, the friends are stalked by a killer.

They discover this happened before, so they turn to two survivors of the legendary Southport massacre of 1997 for help.

Starring Madeline Klein, Chase Sue Wonders, Jonah Howard King with Freddie Prince Jr., and Jennifer Love Hewitt.

I know what you did last summer is a perfect summer slasher, says Jordan Crucciolo of NPR.

Your summer is not over yet.

Don't miss a killer movie night at home.

Why, hello there.

You've reached the antiquarium.

If you wish to leave a message, please do so with the town and have a great day.

Hi, um,

I was calling about a quimmer of magic spells that I recently purchased from your shelf.

Um I did a spell to summon my power,

but

I'm sorry,

I think I summoned something.

I knew he definitely transposed it.

I'm wondering if you guys could help me.

I don't remember anything.

I've lost track of days, hours.

i i think

i think she's crawling at the back of my brain

please help me

end of messages

if you read someone else's diary you get what you deserve rather wise words from mr david sedaris

author comedian

Although what befell poor Noah and his girlfriend is anything but funny.

Continuing down this path, you'll find the last item that paints the canvas of your visit: a piece of paper with a note that reads: Due to vandalism overnight, please use side door

today only.

As for what that means,

well, it seems you

are about to find out in

Autopilot.

Have you ever forgotten your phone?

When did you realize you'd forgotten it?

I'm guessing you didn't just smack your forehead and exclaim, damn, apropos of nothing.

The realization probably didn't dawn on you spontaneously.

More likely, you reached for your phone, pawing open your pocket or handbag, and were momentarily confused by it not being there.

Then you did a mental restep of the morning's events.

Shit.

In my case, my phone's alarm woke me up as normal, but the battery was lower than I expected.

It was a new phone and it had this annoying habit of leaving applications running that drained its power overnight.

So I put it on to charge while I showered instead of into my bag like normal.

It was a momentary slip from the routine, but that was all it took.

Once in the shower, my brain got back into the routine it follows every morning, and that was it.

Forgotten.

This wasn't just me being clumsy, as I later researched.

It's a recognized behavioral function.

Your brain doesn't just work on one level, it works on many.

Like when you're walking somewhere.

You think about your destination and avoiding hazards, but you don't need to think about keeping your legs moving properly.

If you did, the entire world would turn into one massive hilarious quop cosplay.

I wasn't thinking about regulating my breathing.

I was thinking about whether or not I should grab a coffee on the drive to work.

I did.

I wasn't thinking about moving my breakfast through my intestines.

I was wondering if I'd finish on time to pick up my daughter Emily from the nursery or get stuck with another late fee.

This is the thing.

There's a level of your brain that quietly deals with routine so that the rest of it can think about other things.

Think about it.

Think about your last commute.

What do you actually remember?

Little, if anything, probably.

Most common journeys blur together, and recalling any one in particular is scientifically proven to be difficult.

Do something often enough, and it becomes routine.

Keep doing it, and it stops being processed by the thinking bit of the brain, getting relegated to another part dedicated to dealing with it.

Your brain keeps doing it.

without you thinking about it.

Soon, you think about your route to work as much as you do keeping your legs moving when you walk, as in, not at all.

Most people call it autopilot.

But there's danger there.

If you have a break in your routine, your ability to remember and account for the break is only as good as your ability to stop your brain going into routine mode.

My ability to remember my phone being on the counter was only as reliable as my ability to stop my brain entering morning routine mode, which would dictate that my phone is actually in my bag.

But I didn't stop my brain entering routine mode.

I got in the shower as normal.

Routine started.

Exception forgotten.

Autopilot engaged.

My brain was back in the routine.

I I showered, I shaved, the radio forecast amazing weather, I gave Emily her breakfast and loaded her into the car.

She was so adorable that morning.

She complained about the bad sun blinding her, saying it stopped her having a little sleep on the way to nursery.

And left.

That was the routine.

It didn't matter that my phone was on the counter, charging silently.

My brain was in the routine, and in said said routine my phone was in my bag.

This is why I forgot my phone.

Not clumsiness, not negligence.

Nothing more than my brain entering routine mode and overriding the exception.

Autopilot engaged.

I left for work.

It was a swelteringly hot day already.

The bad sun had been burning since before my traitorously absent phone woke me.

The steering wheel was burning hot to the touch when I sat down.

I think I heard Emily shift over behind my driver's seat to get out of the glare, but I got to work, submitted the report, attended the morning meeting.

It wasn't until I took a quick coffee break and reached for my phone that the illusion shattered.

I did a mental restep.

I remembered the dying battery.

I remembered putting it on to charge.

I remembered leaving it there.

My phone was on the counter.

Autopilot disengaged.

Again, therein lies the danger.

Until you have that moment, the moment you reach for your phone and shatter the illusion, that part of the brain is still in routine mode.

It has no reason to question the facts of the routine.

That's why it's a a routine.

Attrition of Repetition

It's not as if anyone could say, why didn't you remember your phone?

Didn't it occur to you?

How could you forget?

You must be negligent.

To do this would miss the point.

My brain was telling me the routine had been completed as normal, despite the fact that it hadn't.

It wasn't that I forgot my phone.

According to my brain, according to the routine, my phone was in my bag.

Why would I think to question it?

Why would I check?

Why would I suddenly remember, out of nowhere, that my phone was on the counter?

My brain was wired into the routine, and the routine was that my phone was in my bag.

The day continued to bake.

The morning haze gave way to the relentless fever heat of the afternoon.

Tarmac bubbled.

Direct beams of heat threatened to crack the pavement.

People swapped coffees for iced smoothies.

Jackets were discarded.

Sleeves rolled up, ties loosened, brows mopped.

The parks slowly filled with sunbathers and barbecues.

Window frames threatened to warp.

The thermometer continued to swell.

Thank fuck the offices were air-conditioned.

But, as ever, the furnace of the day gave way to a cooler evening.

Another day, another dollar.

Still cursing myself for forgetting my phone, I drove home.

The day's heat had baked the inside of the car, releasing a horrible smell from somewhere.

When I arrived on the driveway, the stones crunching comfortably under my tires, my wife greeted me at the door.

Where's Emily?

Fuck.

As if the phone wasn't bad enough.

After everything, I left Emily at the fucking nursery.

I immediately sped back to the building.

I got to the door and started practicing my excuses, wondering vainly if I could charm my way out of a late fee.

I saw a piece of paper stuck to it.

Due to vandalism overnight, please use side door today only.

Overnight?

What?

The door was fine this morning.

I froze.

My knees shook.

Vandals.

A change in the routine.

My phone was on the counter.

I hadn't been here this morning.

My phone was on the counter.

I'd driven past because I was drinking my coffee.

I'd not dropped off, Emily.

My phone was on the counter.

She'd moved her seat.

I hadn't seen her in the mirror.

My phone was on the counter.

She'd fallen asleep out of the bad sun.

She didn't speak when I drove past her nursery.

My phone was on the counter.

She'd changed the routine.

My phone was on the counter.

She'd changed the routine and I'd forgotten to drop her off.

My phone was on the counter.

Nine hours.

That car.

That baking sun.

No air.

No water.

No power.

No help.

That heat.

A steering wheel too hot to touch.

That smell.

I walked to the car door,

numb,

shock.

I opened the door.

My phone was on the counter,

and my daughter

was dead.

Nestled in the arms of the locust, we will all find salvation.

G U

R

S

N

V

G U S H

R

X A R

R R

V A N F U N A Q E H V A

Thank you for your patronage.

Hope you enjoyed your new relic as much as I've enjoyed passing along its sordid history.

It does come with our usual warning, however.

Absolutely no refunds, no exchanges, and we won't be held liable for anything that may or may not occur while the object is in your possession.

If you've got an artifact with mysterious properties, Perhaps it's accompanied by a history of bizarre and disturbing circumstances.

Maybe you'd be interested in dropping it and its story by the shop to share with other customers.

Please reach out to antiquariumshop at gmail.com.

A member of our team will be in touch.

Till next time, we'll be waiting for you whenever you close your eyes.

in the space between sleep and dream.

During regular business hours, of course, or by appointment.

Only for you,

our

best customer.

You have a good night now.

The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings, Lot 073, Autopilot, written by Scarjo, narrated by Owen McEwen, starring Lauren Shand as the wife.

My boyfriend disappeared, but the more I search for him, the more I'm losing myself.

Written by Sebastian Does Horror.

Narrated by E.J.

Lavery,

starring Owen McEwen as Noah.

I got a voicemail from my wife.

She died 10 years ago.

Written by Alice in Boreham.

Narrated by Trevor Shand, starring DeQuintero as Lauren.

Featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer.

Engineering production and sound design by Trevor Shand.

Theme music by the Newton Brothers.

Additional music by COAG and Vivek Abishek.

The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings is created and curated by Trevor and Lauren Shand.

Follow us on Instagram and Twitter at Antiquarium Pod.

Call the Antiquarium at 646-481-7197.

The Toxic Avenger is out now.

Experience the long-awaited, totally unrated monster mayhem exclusively in theaters.

Get tickets now at tickets.toxicavenger.com

Get ready for the aftermath as Creep IE returns to Southern California September 5th through 7th with over 200,000 square feet of pure terror.

Monsters, bands, horror legends, twisted vendors, nightmarish photo ops, and fear around every corner.

Bloody Disgusting will also be on site to share swag, raffle off can't miss prizes, and host star-studded panels.

Kicking off the festivities with a celebration of the Creep series featuring Patrick Bryce and Mark Duplas.

This is not your average con.

Get your tickets now before they vanish at creepiecon.com.

Now,

prepare for the aftermath.